Knockgreelish was in north Clare. Not an easy place to reach if, like Conor, you weren’t in a position to drive. His arm and shoulder still weren’t strong enough to risk taking the car. He took the train to Templemorris and caught the bus from there, an experience he found surprisingly enjoyable. The bus driver greeted everyone by name and made several unscheduled stops to allow the, mostly elderly, passengers to alight at their front gates. From time to time, the driver sang along with the country songs on the radio. Gradually, deep green fields framed by drystone walls gave way to the rocky landscape of the Burren.

Knockgreelish was a throwback to another decade. Grubby lace curtains hung on narrow windows, while the one shop had a forgotten look. Another shop had closed, leaving letters from the Revenue Commissioners pooled by the door. Conor passed two Polish men and felt a twinge of pity. Imagine leaving your home and ending up in a miserable spot like this. He expected that if he looked a particular way he’d see young fellows pushing a car, a group of kids hitching a lift in a trailer or some other scene from a bygone age.

The house where Gregory Galvin lived with his wife, Hannah, was at the edge of the village. Pebble-dashed on the outside, the inside was gloomy but immaculate. There was a Sacred Heart lamp in the narrow hall. In the sitting room, an old-style dresser was laden with family photos: here a graduation, there a wedding. The Galvins had a substantial family. Most poignantly, in the middle of the display there was a large picture of Father Leo.

This, Conor reckoned, was a house where they still said a daily rosary. He also sensed that they’d deliberated over whether to offer him tea. In the end, good manners won out, and Hannah said, ‘You’ll have a cup in your hand.’ This, it seemed, was an order, not an offer. Some minutes later, she returned with a thick brew and a plate of fruit scones.

Conor had a visceral dislike of Gregory Galvin, dating back to the newspaper article in which he’d criticised the garda investigation and called for a public inquiry. As they spoke, this floated away.

‘Now, this mightn’t be easy for you to accept,’ said Gregory, ‘but my brother was let down. The entire family was let down. If the guards suspected Noel O’Grady, why didn’t they arrest him before he drove into a ditch?’

Conor waltzed around the question. ‘Maybe they didn’t have enough information until after he’d died. I know how difficult it can be to assemble sufficient evidence.’

Hannah nodded.